


A Prayer to St. Valentine

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ash Wednesday - Freeform, Clubbing, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Intoxication, M/M, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Requited Unrequited Love, Valentine's Day, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 09:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13678878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: Today is the day of St. Valentine.Patron saint of lovers, marriages, and traveling. He had been looked up to as a paragon of "courtly love."Tomas had never cared much about courtly love until now.-In which Valentine's Day and Ash Wednesday fall upon the same day of the year.





	A Prayer to St. Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> Ash Wednesday and Valentine's Day coinciding on the same date is, as far as I'm concerned, a Tomarcus holiday.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day.
> 
> Remember, you are dust.

Tomas’ life as an exorcist is full of desert dust and cheap sandwiches. He sits in the truck, sometimes driving and sometimes sitting curled up in the shotgun, and watches the world move past while he himself seems to stand still.

The motels all look the same after a while. Two beds, ugly wallpaper, a shower that rattles ominously when Tomas turns the tap. This latest also has a staticky TV that needs a good thump before it turns on, and a window that opens onto a parking lot, empty but for their truck and a few windswept candy wrappers.

It’s easy to forget that the world goes on and on without caring if Marcus and Tomas are a part of it or not. They’ve slipped into an easy routine. Step out of the truck and into a nightmare. A day, two, three weeks, and then back into the truck, off to a motel where they’ll sleep it off, soap their skin, wipe their eyes, and back on the road again. Ceaseless, interminable, and tiring.

Tomas loves it.

Every minute of it.

Early one morning he went out for supplies, (“Take my jacket,” Marcus had said, and something clenched in Tomas’ heart. “You’ll catch your death,”) and stumbled into the Valentine’s Day craze of mid-February. Everywhere, people. Out and about, hand in hand, running harried into shops and walking slowly out of them again. All of them bundled warm against the rain, or tucked against each other as they shared umbrellas.

It’s good to be around people again. Even if they’re young and in love.

Tomas had found himself stuck in line at the nearest grocery store, his hands shoved in his pockets as he looked at the expensive, red-wrapped chocolates and heart-shaped balloons. That kind of cheap excess had used to be something that Tomas rarely noticed, or else acknowledged with a gentle eye-roll. Nowadays even the cheapest of indulgences was something to be wistfully lingered over.

Tomas pays for his groceries and steps out into the February slush, readying himself for the short trek through the rain back to the motel. He wishes he’d had the money for chocolates. Marcus loved sweets.

Bennett was fond of calling Ash Wednesday the start of a season of self-denial. He liked to say this because it gave him an excuse to cut back on Marcus’ budget, even though Marcus had many times growled in his face that if their budget was cut any farther, they’d have to start chewing holes in their own sweaters. Tomas can laugh about it now, but at the time, Marcus had been royally pissed. Tomas had easily talked him down from his anger, which was a pleasant surprise to both of them.

Ash Wednesday, for Tomas, was less about the self-denial and more about the worship. On As Wednesday, every breath you took was a prayer.

Tomas dwells on this as he trudges across the motel parking lot to Room 6, freezing rain pattering wetly on his back and in his hair. A dull headache is throbbing at the base of his skull. He tugs Marcus’ jacket tighter around him, half a defense against the rain, and half an excuse to press his nose against the lining of the collar. Tomas had never given much thought to the smell of leather before he met Marcus. There were a lot of things he had never given much thought to.

Tomas fumbles with his keycard outside the door for a moment, balancing his grocery bag on one hip, before he finally swipes it and gets the door open. He shuffles inside quickly and shuts the door behind him.

The first thing he feels is the warm relief of being indoors again, followed closely by the warmer relief of seeing Marcus sitting against the headboard of his bed, his Bible propped open on his knees. He’s still drawing. Just the way Tomas had left him.

“Hey,” says Tomas. “I’m back.”

Marcus sets his Bible aside on the bedside table and stretches languidly, bending his arms up and over his head to loosen their tension. His hands are smeared with graphite up to the wrist. His fingertips are black with it. “You took your time,” he says. “Get caught in the holiday crowds, did you?”

“Something like that,” Tomas nudges the door shut behind him with his foot. The grocery bag rustles in his hand as he crosses the room, tossing it onto the foot of his own bed and-

_leaning down to press his lips against Marcus’, as gentle and undemanding as an I’ve-come-home kiss can be._

_Marcus’ hand comes up to cup the back of his neck as he returns the kiss with a hum of pleased surprise. He laughs when they part, and when Tomas raises a questioning eyebrow at him, Marcus holds up his graphite-smeared hand._

_“I think I’ve made a mess of your skin,” he says._

_“I don’t mind,” says Tomas, nuzzling one last kiss against Marcus’ cheek before standing up to retrieve the bag he’d left tossed across the foot of their bed._

_“Anything Bennett would disapprove of?” Marcus asks wryly, sliding himself forward to sit on the edge of the mattress. He cranes his neck for a view._

_“A few things,” Tomas says. He gently tosses a squat, rectangular box into Marcus’ lap. Marcus catches it and stares. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”_

_Marcus frowns, but his eyes are bright and playful. “What’s this, now?”_

_“I wanted to thank you for letting me use your jacket.”_

_Marcus snorts with something almost like derision, and undoes the red satin ribbon on the box. “That’s a lot of wank, Tomas.”_

_“Stop that,” Tomas says, watching Marcus sidelong as he unloads the rest of the shopping. “I wanted to surprise you.”_

_Marcus pops the top off the box and sets it next to him on the bed. One pale, long-fingered hand lingers indecisive over the array of chocolates. “I’m starting to think,” he says, “that you might be a hopeless romantic.”_

_“Would it be so bad if I was?”_

_“No,” Marcus says honestly, “not if it gets me chocolates just for existing on February 14th.”_

_He picks the black one with the white stripes across it and pops the whole thing in his mouth in one go. He sighs as the chocolate melts on his tongue._

_“You do that to me on purpose,” Tomas says quietly._

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

_“Lying is a sin, Marcus.”_

_“So is indulgence,” Marcus says, watching Tomas through half-closed eyes. “But that’s what today’s all about, yeah? Indulgence. Plastic-wrapped, candy-coated indulgence,” he gestures with his hand. “Come here.”_

_Tomas, who has taken a dark red card from the bag and is currently worrying it between finger and thumb, smiles. He leans over so he can kiss Marcus’ candy-sweet mouth again, and Marcus parts his lips for Tomas’ tongue. He taste like chocolate and Marcus, Marcus, Marcus._

_When they part, Marcus bumps their foreheads together and gives a sly little chuckle. “You’ve got-” he says gently, reaching up to touch Tomas’ lips, and Tomas realizes his kiss must’ve been deep enough to smear his lips with chocolate. He can feel his face flushing red, to Marcus’ delight._

_“Let’s go out,” says Marcus, slipping his arm around Tomas’ shoulders. He presses a scratchy, sugary kiss to Tomas’ temple. “Let’s go break some hearts.”_

_“I like that idea,” Tomas says, “but first, I wanted to give you this.”_

_Tomas gives him the card. It’s plain but pretty, red in color with a much darker red heart across the front. No glitter, no pop-outs, no voice chips that sing. When Marcus flips it open it’s blank on the inside. It’s almost beautiful in its lack of adornment._

_“Oh,” he says softly, a smile creeping across his face. “You really are a hopeless romantic.”_

_“I didn’t know what to write, so I left it blank, in case we-_

needed something to burn,” says Tomas, folding the valentine into halves, then quarters.

Marcus laughs his big, barking laugh, the one that rumbles through his whole body and makes Tomas go weak at the knees. “I’ve made you a dramatic son of a bitch, haven’t I,” he says, like it’s his proudest achievement to date.

Tomas inclines his head with a smile, and deposits the quartered valentine into the metal ash tray on the table between their beds. They had asked for a smoking room this time, and the lady behind the desk had been grouchy, but cooperative.

“Well,” says Marcus, with a cheerful sigh. “Forgive us, St. Valentine, we know not what we do.”

He stands up so he can slip his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans. The pop art Virgin Mary on the case is smudged over with years of fingerprints, and the metal is beginning to tarnish. Marcus flicks the lighter with practiced ease, and the flame lights at once. He touches the flame to the crumpled heart. The room begins to smell like burning paper.

“Do you ever think of St. Valentine?” Tomas asks. He sits back down on the edge of his bed and watches the paper curl in on itself, already looking ashen.

“About as much as anyone else does. My attention tended to wander at school.”

Tomas’ attention, meanwhile, lingers on Marcus’ hands as he snaps his lighter closed. He follows the curve of his bony wrist, the sinews in his forearms, the casual slope of his shoulders. Marcus tilts his head as he contemplates the flames, showing Tomas the long, ivory column of his neck, and Tomas returns his attention to the fire, hating himself for looking.

Not long ago he’d been coming home early from another supply run- and already he thought of it as coming home- and had caught the tail end of something soft and jazzy from outside the door. Tomas had looked through the window, between the folds of the patchy scarlet curtains, and there Marcus was. _Dancing_.

He was beautiful when he danced. From the understated swaying of the hips he did when he was alone, to the enthusiastic, almost bouncing out of his seat excitement when a new song came on the radio. In all his days with Marcus, Tomas had yet to hear him sing a hymn. _God doesn’t want to hear bloody funeral marches,_ he said. Marcus preferred love songs, and so, he said, did God.

Tomas couldn’t forget that moment, a glimpse of Marcus from outside a locked room, if he tried.

He hasn’t tried.

He should.

Tomas watches the valentine burn to cinders in the ash tray and-

_the club is everything Tomas has denied himself. It’s loud and young and full of life, entirely different from the dirty motel rooms and dirtier highways that make up the blueprints of Tomas’ life. This place reminds him of his youth. This place reminds him was uncollared men who look like him are doing._

_Marcus moves easily through the crowd, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders stooped. Tomas follows in his wake, watching as Marcus glances around. He’s looking for the exits. He always looks for the exits._

_Marcus says something. The bass it too loud for Tomas to hear him. It’s a ceaseless thumpa-thumpa-thumpa that hums in his bones and makes his stomach feel weightless._

_The lights are red, pink, and white. Dimly through the sweat and press of dozens of warm and unfamiliar bodies, Tomas can see the tacky heart-shaped cutouts on the walls, and the red balloons bobbing forlornly on the ceiling. The room might’ve smelled of chocolate at once time. Now it smells like youth, hormones, and anxiety._

_It’s not a bad place to spend a Valentine’s Day._

_“Fucking commercial bollocks, all of it,” says Marcus as they sidle up to the bar by the far wall._

_“Buy me a shot?” says Tomas, leaning his elbow on the bartop._

_Marcus stares. “You’re serious?”_

_“I am tonight.”_

_“Fuck me,” Marcus mumbles under his breath. He waves the nearest bartender over as Tomas surveys the Sodom and Gomorrah they’ve found themselves in this evening. Usually he drinks club soda. Not tonight. Tonight, he needs a little courage._

_A little courage is far from enough for the sight of Marcus leaning dangerously close to him, with a wicked look in his eye and a whispered count of, “On three. One . . . two . . .”_

_They take their shots as one, and Tomas splutters to Marcus’ whooping delight. His arm comes down heavily around Tomas’ neck and squeezes him. “That’s my lad,” he says with a grin. His gaze flicks from Tomas’ eyes to his mouth and back again._

_Then he pulls away._

_“That’s my lad,” he repeats, with a gesture to the barman. “You up for another?”_

_“Yeah,” says Tomas, utterly defeated by the curve of Marcus’ back, and the movement of his fingers against the grease-smudged countertop. “I’m-_

alone. The bathroom door clicks shut behind Marcus, and their room is plunged suddenly into silence.

Tomas lets out a long, slow exhale, and gets on his knees. Privacy, in his mind, has long since metamorphosed from _alone with God_ to _alone with God and Marcus,_ but now, just for now, he is glad Marcus is out of the room. It will give him a few moments to pray.

Today is the day of St. Valentine. Patron saint of lovers, marriage, and travel. He is looked up to as a paragon of _courtly love._

Tomas had never cared much about courtly love until now.

It was an old, and vaguely distant idea. Far from the plasticky sheen of red balloons, and the cloying scent of chocolate-dipped strawberries. It was the kind of thing Tomas read about as a boy, filling his head with battered picture books about dragons and princesses and knights errant. _Courtly love._ He had believed that to be the love between knights and their princesses, and it surprised him as an adult to learn that it was more often the love between knights and married noblewomen.

Surprised, but not displeased.

Not now that he was madly, stupidly, dangerously in love, with a collar around his neck growing tighter every day.

Tomas bows his head and lets himself pray a selfish prayer. The only kind of prayer to St. Valentine that he knows.

“I pray for your love, and your guidance,” he prays, his voice a mere whisper so Marcus won’t hear through the door. “My heart is pure, and my intentions are clear. I seek a partner who I can love completely and who might receive my love. Who loves and honors me in return, and who might touch the deepest places of my heart. May my life be ready to welcome love. May I be embraced in a circle of your love, and uplifted by your grace. And so it is. Amen.”

Tomas lifts his head. _Courtly love._ A golden fantasy that hung between eroticism and spirituality, sexual immorality and divine revelation, love for love’s sake and heartbreak for the sake of heartbreak. All of it built on impossible desires and antiquated notions of chivalry. The kind of love that made men ride to the ends of the earth to fetch a fallen star.

Marcus already had a fallen star. It had taken nothing at all. Only a smile, a glance, a shall-we-try-this-together, and Tomas fell.

The tenets of courtly love maintained that it was noble to love someone you could not have. The love cancelled out the sin of loving. Perpetual, unsatisfied desire was a virtue-

_and no one’s fucking virtuous on Valentine’s Day,” Marcus laughs. The flickering pink strobe reflects off the sheen of his sweat, painting him the color of a thousand blushes. Tomas can’t think, his mind addled by alcohol and the sight of Marcus running his hand through his bristly hair._

_The dance floor is packed. Young bodies move under the lights, pressed up against each other, all bare skin and grasping, needy hands. The club smells like sex, and Tomas feels dangerous. It’s a feeling only Marcus brings out in him, when he smiles so sweetly and laughs so carelessly and stands close enough to kiss._

_So Tomas does, leaning forward to press his lips against Marcus’, but the kiss lasts only a moment before Marcus pulls away, his lips twisted in a rueful grin._

_“Not here,” he says. “Not where everyone can see.”_

_“You are not in danger,” Tomas murmurs, stepping closer, closer, closer so that Marcus can hear him over the thumping of the bass. “You know what I will do, if anyone gives us trouble.”_

_Marcus slips his hand around the back of Tomas’ neck and brushes their noses together. “Not here,” he says gently. “Please.”_

_“Let yourself be young and in love,” Tomas pleads. “Just for tonight.”_

_Marcus lets out a shaky sigh. “For you,” he says slowly, “I’ll do that.”_

_“Thank you,” Tomas whispers. “I meant what I said about anyone who gives us trouble._

_Marcus gives Tomas a little pat on the neck, the relief on his face a balm after the tension of a moment before. He pulls away and leans on the bar, gesturing flippantly at the air. “This is young person music.”_

_Tomas is so in love with him he thinks he may faint._

_“Let’s dance,” he says, because alcohol makes him silly and stupid and brave._

_Marcus looks at him in wonder. A smile creeps across his face. “Full of surprises today, are we?” He nods at the warm bodies moving around them, and the glimpses of skin dipping in and out of the shadows and colored light. “Might do to practice a little-_

self-denial,” says Marcus, as they watch the last of the valentine curl and crumble in the ash tray. Tomas pokes at it with the end of one of Marcus’ pencils. “A reminder of the death from which Christ resurrected us. From dust we came and to dust we must return.”

“The burden of the cross,” Tomas murmurs in agreement.

A holiday in the traditional sense. A holy day. No festivities, no isles lined with chocolates. No cross-shaped boxes full of dust. _Remember you are going to die._ Tomas so rarely had excuses to buy Marcus things, even if he thought he could get away with it. Marcus would’ve thought such a gift was funny.

He’d find a box of chocolates even funnier.

He’d eat them, though.

“What’re you smiling about?” Marcus teases. “I hope that smile isn’t you thinking about the crucifixion.”

Tomas rubs the back of his neck to try to hide his embarrassment. “No,” he says. “Just happy, I guess.”

“Good. I like to see you happy.”

Tomas feels something warm and contented welling up inside him, and before he can think better of it, he reaches out to put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder. “Will you pray with me, Marcus?”

Marcus looks up at him, his eyes warm and bright. “Yeah,” he says, with a pleased smile. “Always.”

He reaches out to take Tomas’ clasped hands in his own, folding his hands over Tomas’, and-

_running them down Tomas’ arms, delighting in the feeling of his muscles moving under his skin. God, Tomas loves that Marcus loves his body. He’d run twice as often and twice as far if it would keep Marcus looking at him with that awed adoration. Tomas’ shirt is already sticking to him as he sweats in the heat of the club. He put his arms around Marcus’ waist and tugs him closer to he can press wet, open-mouthed kisses to Marcus’ neck._

_Anyone could see them._

_To be kissed like this in a public place means danger. It means a kick in the teeth and ugly words thrown at his back, but in this moment, neither of them care. Marcus aches his back beneath Tomas’ hands, moving his hips just so, and Tomas sighs in pleasure at the friction. For a moment he feels entirely incorporeal, a bring of color and light. They are like two candle flames licking against each other, the last two candles in the dark window of the world._

_“What did I ever do,” Tomas sighs against Marcus’ neck, “that my Lord would send you to me in my dreams . . .”_

_Marcus’ hands slip to Tomas’ shoulders and he gives him a fond, playful push, giving him room to dance. His arms curl over his head and he begins to swivel his hips as he sinks lower, obscenely lower, before rising again. His body moves with the music, hypnotic in the way he sways his hips and curves his back. Tomas is enchanted, and achingly hard. His cock is tenting the front of his trousers._

_Colors flash and swirl and spin, blindingly colorful, interspersed with shadows that dance and barely mask the obscenities taking place on the crowded dance floor. Marcus is laughing, loud and crude and masculine compared to the sensual movement of his hips. Tomas could cry for how good it is to hear Marcus laugh._

_Marcus throws his arms up over his head and curls them back down, his shirt riding up just enough for Tomas to catch a glimpse of his belly._

_Tomas can endure it no longer._

_He falls to his knees on the dance floor. Marcus grins as he rolls his hips languidly against the air, inches from Tomas’ lips. Tomas reaches up to grip Marcus’ thighs with his hands and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the tempting v-line at his hips, exposed by the dip of his jeans. The other dancers seem to part around them, too in love with themselves and each other to care if Tomas debases himself._

_Tomas licks his lips, unsatisfied by a single kiss. The danger of being seen or caught seems nonexistent to him, because-_

it’s not real,” says Marcus. “It’s all loveless marketing and cheap chocolates.”

“This is real,” says Tomas. “This here, _this_ is real.This means something.”

They’re kneeling opposite each other on the patchy motel carpeting, their shoes off and their heads bowed. Tomas has poured a few drops of holy water into the ash tray and is mixing it together, muddying the black ash.

“The ash ought to be sacred,” says Marcus, watching as Tomas moves his hand in a slow circle over the ashes, eyes closed, whispering to God.

“Sacred palm fronds are in short supply on the road,” murmurs Tomas between blessings, and when he opens his eyes, he sees that Marcus is smiling.

Tomas lays the ashtray carefully between them and adjusts his stole so it lies properly around his shoulders. “Ready?” he asks.

Marcus nods, and Tomas feels a little glow of pride warm his heart. Not even the excommunicated are forbidden from this particular sacrament. This, at least, they can share.

“Let us ask our Father to bless these ashes,” says Tomas, “which we will use as the mark of our repentance.”

“Amen,” says Marcus, bowing his head.

Tomas allows a moment of silence before continuing. “Lord, bless these ashes, by which we show that we are dust. Pardon our sins and keep us faithful to the discipline of Lent, for You do not want sinners to die, but to live with the risen Christ, who reigns with You for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen.”

Tomas dips his thumb lightly into the ashes. He marks his own forehead first, closing his eyes as he does so, and when he opens them again Marcus has tilted his head up to receive his own.

Tomas reaches out and marks Marcus’ forehead, painting an ash-black cross on his pale skin. _"Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris,”_ he murmurs as he does this, and when the deed is done, he lets himself cup Marcus’ cheek.

Marcus’ eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open. Tomas can hear his soft breathing. He makes no move to shy away from Tomas’ hand.

Tomas leans forward, hardly knowing what he’s doing. He presses a lingering kiss to Marcus’ forehead, with the same reverence with which he kisses his Bible.

When he pulls back, Marcus’ eyes are open, and he’s looking at Tomas like he’s something sacred.

“You’ve got-” he murmurs, reaching up to touch Tomas’ lips, and Tomas realizes his kiss must’ve left a smudge of ash across his mouth. He lets Marcus wipe it away with his fingertips.

“I’ve only made it worse,” Marcus says gently, a playful gleam in his eyes. He shows Tomas his graphite-smeared hands, then runs two fingers down Tomas’ cheek, smearing it with pencil-marks. “You look a real mess now.”

“Like you?” says Tomas. Marcus has to cover his mouth with the back of his hand to hold back his laughter.

“We can’t laugh,” he says, in a voice of forced severity. “This is a religious moment.”

Marcus’ “Calm Voice” reminds Tomas of Bennett at just the wrong moment, and he lets out a stifled _pfft_ of laughter that sets Marcus off too, and then they’re both laughing, kneeling across from each other with ash on their foreheads and _laughing_ about it, and Marcus’ hand is on Tomas’ shoulder and nothing, nothing could be better than-

_lurching out of the club into a disused alleyway, red neon shining off the puddles of grease and rainwater. Marcus’ arm is around Tomas’ shoulders as they stumble, laughing, out into the night._

_“God,” Tomas breathes, his whole body aching from laughter. “God.”_

_Marcus presses a kiss to Tomas’ temple and laughs. “Always thought it’d be me getting us kicked out of a place like that,” he grins against Tomas’ skin, “and you ducking your head as you followed me out, all apologies and peace-be-with-you’s.”_

_“I love you,” Tomas says desperately. “You don’t know it and maybe you will never understand it but I would die for you if you asked me. I would live for you if you asked me.”_

_“I know it,” Marcus says softly, his arms around Tomas’ waist as he backs Tomas up against the alley wall. He begins to nibble at Tomas’ ear. “What do you mean, I don’t know it?”_

_Tomas clutches him close and presses his face against Marcus’ neck. “Te amo,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and his heart pounding._

_Here he can say it without consequences. Here he can say it and Marcus believes him. Here in his dreams, neither of them are dust, and neither of them will return to it._

_Here Marcus kisses his neck, and presses him flush against the wall of a filthy alleyway, and God, this is what it is to see God, this is the beatific vision, and the only joy that could compare to it is the joy of-_

kneeling side by side with his dearest friend, their heads piously bowed, praying to welcome in the season of Lent. It won’t be the first time they’ve gone hungry and called it fasting.

Tomas’ left leg is pressed up against the length of Marcus’ right. Their bodies are close enough to find comfort in each other’s heat.

“What are you giving up for Lent?” Marcus asks.

Tomas watches him wind his rosary around his hands. The beads slip between his fingers, dripping down from them like a beaded curtain in a seedy club.

 _Impossible fantasies,_ Tomas thinks. _Daydreams. Courtly love._

But instead he says, “Chocolate,” which causes Marcus to let out a little huff of laughter that makes Tomas want to kiss him.

“That one’ll be easy for us,” he says wryly. “I haven’t had chocolate in . . .”

He leaves the sentence unfinished. Once he’s through winding his rosary around his hands he clasps them tightly together, looking up at the stucco ceiling of their motel room as though hoping to see God in the paint.

“What are you giving up?” asks Tomas, not taking his eyes off him.

Marcus doesn’t look at him. His eyes are fixed on God.

“Chocolate,” he says after a long hesitation.

Tomas smiles as he winds his own rosary around his hands. _Fine then,_ he thinks. _Don’t tell me._

_I will love you no matter what you don’t tell me._


End file.
